These Shackles That Drive Us
by EvanesceExotica
Summary: The Left4Dead2 characters are transplanted into historical American slavery. Coach and Rochelle, slaves on a Southern plantation, try to escape with the help of Nick, an abolitionist, and his lover Ellis, who is also the master's son.


Author's Note: This fanfiction contains images of American slavery, racial and homophobic slurs, depictions of sexual intercourse assault and adult language and themes.

It transplants the playable characters of Left4Dead2 into the time of American slavery, surrounded with original characters who may or may not evolve into the likenesses of Left4Dead2's "special infected". Read at your own risk.

* * *

Ellis waited, his robe doubled over his arm as Laveau, this caramel-skinned slave, poured pails of hot, coal-heated water into the bathtub. He watched the steam rise. Laveau stirred the bath with his hand and without speaking, sprinkled bath salts onto the surface.

"That's enough," Ellis said. "Thank you."

Laveau nodded, bowed, left the room. The man did not speak much, and though he was the most elegantly dressed slave, even worthy of a small salary, he lacked the arrogance a black man of similar stature would radiate. Ellis rubbed the back of his aching neck and began to unbutton his shirt. Pausing, he untied his trousers and stepped out of them. He dipped his hand into the water.

"It's quite cozy in here," came a voice. The slender boy lifted his head, eyes widened. Someone's sillhouette sat on the window sill. The late red sunlight framed him like a halo through the pane. It was a man.

"Who's there?" Ellis said.

"Nicholas Fraiser," the man answered. Ellis exhaled. Nicholas was his father's guest, a businessman and auctioneer. Ellis watched him lift a bottle of absinthe to his mouth and swallow deep.

"Are you drunk?"

"No," Nicholas said. Then he laughed and said, "I'm a little in the spirits. But I came in here because there's this beautiful view of the sun setting over the rice fields. I didn't mean to interrupt your bath." He took another sip of alcohol. Ellis bit his lip.

"Should I leave?" he asked.

"No, continue," Nick said. He stared out of the window. Ellis didn't particularly like the view of which Nick spoke. You could see the slave quarters, the little shanty houses and lean-tos on the edge of the woods. At this time of day, they were coming home exhausted. On Saturday evenings, the slaves would play music and dance in their mud-yards. But this night, it was silent.

Ellis removed the rest of his clothes and slid into the tub, groaning in relief as the hot water soothed his body. He was the youngest of seven brothers, and his father had sent him out the past few days to work beside the overseer, James Paul. The overseer, ruthless as a hell-hound, drove the slaves into the ground, bent their backs so low. He was also an expert hunter. Those that tried to run, even the young black men who were fleet-footed and desperate, were brought back in chains, beaten senseless, or if they were worthless enough, hanged.

He took a cake of ivory soap and began to wash himself, gagging at the smell of his own sweat.

"That girl," Nicholas said, startling Ellis out of his thoughts.

"What?"

"The Negro girl down there. She's walking over here. Shouldn't they all be sleeping?"

Ellis sank deeper into the water. "That's Rochelle. She's my father's...favorite."

"Ah," Nicholas said. He watched as the girl crossed the back lawn, holding her dress up by the hems to avoid grass stains. Her head bowed, her hair braided. The servant's entrance opened as she neared the house. She hesitated for a moment, then walked inside. Moments later, he heard footsteps on the stairs. A bedroom door opened then closed.

"Poor girl," Nicholas said. Ellis thought the man strange. His dark hair and faltering accent. He wasn't Southern. Perhaps he pretended to be. The boy shook away those thoughts and continued to bathe as Nick still gazed out of the window.

The rising heat made him drowsy. He didn't realize that he'd dozed off until he felt a tug of pleasure. Nick had his hand under the water and stroked the boy's penis. Ellis at first did not register what was happening. It was dark. He looked up at Nicholas through half-lidded eyes and moaned. Though night had fallen, and the man's face was hidden by shadows, he could see the white of Nick's teeth as he smiled.

"You flatter me," the man said. Ellis realized he was erect. He whimpered, knowing this was wrong, yet not doing anything to stop it. He could scent the alcohol on Nick's breath.

"Stop," Ellis said, too much breath in his words.

"But you're enjoying my company," Nicholas said. "It would be rude of me to leave."

Ellis felt pressure build up inside him and bit his lip, groaning as he ejaculated.

David Alexander came inside the sweet girl for the second time that night. Rochelle panted, her eyes softening as he finished with a last few pumps in and out before collapsing on top of her. His blonde hair stuck to his cheeks and he smiled down at her, her dark skin and dark eyes shining. He kissed her cheekbone.

"Lord," he said. "I do not know what I would do without you. Do you love me, Rochelle?"

"Yes, Massah," she said. Her lip quivered. He pulled out of her, tightening his grip around her waist.

"Why d'you seem scared each night, then? Do I not treat you gentle? Does it hurt?"

"No, sir," she said. "S'not that I scared of."

"What, then?" He moved lower, pushing his mouth over her nipple and suckling.

"A baby," she said. "I scared that if I have a little one, you won't love him."

Master David paused, lifting his head. "Are you with child now?"

"No, sir," she said. "Just _if."_

He rolled off of her, sitting up. "You afraid I won't raise my own children?"

"I want to go to bed, Massah," she said, staring up at the satin canopy of his bed. "I'm tired."

"Alright," he said. She climbed from the mattress, pulling back on her dress. He watched as she buttoned it, his green eyes lit with such lust. She slipped on her worn shoes and walked to the door, turning the door knob.

"Goodnight, Rochelle," he said. His voice sent shivers down her spine.

"G'night, Massah," she murmured. She went into the hallway, closing the door behind her. She walked downstairs past the dining room, jumping when she saw the chandelier half-lit. Master David's wife, Lena, sat at the table with a book. She looked up. Her eyes were cold as she examined the girl, her messy hair, her rumpled clothes.

"Good evenin', Missus," Rochelle said, nodding. The woman said nothing. She knew. Her thin lips pursed, her long hair thinning from illness. Her skin, pale and taut. Her fingernails uncut. The doctors couldn't find what was wrong with her. But it was way before she fell sick that her husband began calling for Rochelle. It was a routine. He did not bother being secretive anymore. Rochelle wilted under the gaze of her master's dying wife. She hurried from the big house as quickly as she could.

Rochelle pushed inside her shack. Uncle Coach sat in his wooden chair, rocking back and forth. He looked up as she entered, his face grim.

"How your leg feeling?" she asked, nodding toward the bandaged limb that rested on a stool.

They didn't talk about where she went at night. He wasn't her real uncle, more than likely a distant cousin, but when she'd been separated from her parents as a child, he raised her. James Paul, the overseer, had worked Uncle Coach so hard he sprained his ankle. He'd gotten the name "Coach" because he drove the carriage for his previous master at another plantation, but when he came here, they put him to immediate work in the fields. He'd been out of work for weeks waiting for his leg to heal.

"Jus' fine. I can work again in a few weeks, how 'bout that?"

"Want me to make you some tea?"

"No, girl. Get sleep."

She nodded and lay down on her cot, staring at the wall.

"That guest of Massah David's, the Yankee man. He came to talk to me when you were in the field today."

"What he said?" Rochelle asked, sleep pulling at her. She cocooned herself in the thin woolen blanket, wanting to bathe all of David Alexander off of her, out of her, but too tired to get back up.

"He's an abolitionist."

"What's that?" she said, yawning.

"Come to stop slavery. Come to set us free."

Her eyes opened. "Mad-talk," she said. "Does Massah know?"

"'Course he don't. Why'd he keep someone near who wants to take his slaves?"

"That ain't all I heard 'bout that Nick Frasier. Laveau says the man tried to make a move on him. Laveau thinks he's a queer."

"You can get Laveau to talk?"

"He talk to me in the halls sometime. Before I … go up to Massah's room."

Uncle Coach seemed to pause as if in thought. Before he opened his mouth again, a light spilled through the slats in the wooden shack and there was the sound of a metal rod clattering as it was dragged across the wall. It was James Paul, the overseer, with his lantern passing by. Uncle Coach moved silently from his chair and lay down on the cot beside Rochelle's, turning his back and pretending to sleep. When the door cracked and James peered in, however, Rochelle truly was asleep.

Ellis woke up, the pain in his skull almost rivaling the pain from his waist to his thighs. He struggled to sit up, looked at the sunlight glinting on the absinthe bottle and the little green vein of liquor still left in the bottom. He was still in the bathtub. His fingertips were wrinkled and his skin supple, but the water had been drained. He looked over the rim of the tub, saw clothes on the floor that weren't his. He then remembered what happened. Bile rose in his throat and he coughed up into the nearby wastebasket.

Nicholas Frasier. That bastard had…raped him? No, memories flooded back. Ellis let him. When he'd woken up the first time to the man molesting him, he'd ejaculated. Ellis had leaned up and kissed him. He wasn't sure why, he just did. And the man, aroused, climbed into the bathtub and pulled Ellis onto his lap. Then…

"Lord, have mercy," Ellis groaned.

"You know, I thought he'd be a little more subtle. That yankee son of a whore."

Ellis turned toward the doorway and saw his elder brother, Thomas, standing there, pulling on riding gloves.

"You know what happened?" Ellis said.

"Of course. Laveau told me. Don't worry, boy, I haven't told Father."

"And Mama? Did you tell her?"

Thomas scratched his stubble, sighing. "It's not as if she could do anything, the state she's in."

"But you told her?"

"I did. And I want to get that bastard out of this house as promptly as I can. Something's not right with him." Thomas stroked his riding crop against his wrist. "Did he force you?"

"I don't know," Ellis said. "I was tired…he was drunk. It's no different than what you and Father do to those slave girls."

Thomas's face darkened. "It's much different. You and him? It's a sin against God. You're lucky you're my favorite brother, Ellis. And that bastard is lucky he's one hell of a businessman. Otherwise, I would tell Father. And you'd wish you'd never been born."

Thomas pulled up the hood on his riding uniform, turned on his heel and left.

Ellis stepped from the tub, slid on his robe. In some ways, Thomas was worse than Father. He was aggressive. Whether it was a Negro girl or the tow-headed daughter of one of Father's wealthy friends, he would tear her up.

(Earlier)

Nicholas Frasier knocked on the door of the slave shack. It was so early in the morning, he sun had not risen yet. His head throbbed. The door opened and his mouth parted when he recognized the girl standing there, still half-asleep. She was the girl Ellis Alexander had described as his father's "favorite." She was also the girl he'd been sent to get.

"You're Rochelle?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," she said, bashful. "You Mistah Nicholas Frasier?"

"May I come in?"

"Sure, sir, but James Paul don't like us havin' no visitors."

He stepped inside. The shack, humble and small, could only fit two people. He nodded at Uncle Coach who leaned back in his chair, eating stew.

"Mornin', Mistah Frasier," Coach said.

"Hello, Coach," Nick said, tipping his hat. He took a seat at their table—a small tree stump the shack had been built around. "I must be quick about this, Rochelle. Your parents sent me."

"My parents?" she said, furrowing her brow. "They alive?"

"And up North. I helped them escape two years ago and they scraped up enough money to proposition me. They want me to bring you to them."

Rochelle dropped her bowl and stew splattered on the dirt floor. "Oh, Lord," she said. She sat on her cot, began rocking back and forth. "Oh, Lord."

"Are you okay?"

"You know what would happen if I tried to run?" she said, wild-eyed.

"Listen, I'm very good at my job. And there's a whole system of people wanting to help," he said.

"He'd kill me. Massah would kill me. Mistah Thomas would drag me to the gallows and I'd hang." She began to tremble. "And James Paul would beat me till I had no skin."

Nicholas stood and walked to her, placing his hand on her shoulder. "Don't be afraid," he said.

"I can't. I can't leave Uncle Coach here," she murmured, tears on her cheeks.

"He's coming with us. His leg has been better for a while now, but he's still skipping work so it could heal faster."

"Massah says he loves me," Rochelle said. "He says he don't know what he'd do without me. He'd kill me if I run. He'd choke me in his bed."

"Listen, Rochelle. I promise I'll get you North. I've been doing this for ten years and I've never been caught. Think of it like Moses leading the Jews out of Egypt to the Promised Land."

"You got God on your side?" Rochelle said.

"Something like that," Nicholas said.

She stared at her hands for a long while. "Mama and Papa. How are they?"

"Healthy. Your Papa got work as a coal miner. But they're not complete without you."

Rochelle exhaled. "You should go, Mistah Frasier. Before James Paul comes along. He ain't happy when we get visitors."

Nick put his hat back on and nodded before leaning down and kissing the girl's hand. She tensed. He bowed curtly to Uncle Coach and left the shack, the door slamming crooked on its hinges.

Weeks Later

The hooded priest stood over Mistress as she thrashed, her four oldest sons holding down her hands and legs. Her hair had grayed, fell over her face, she screamed, wailed, her eyes reddened and skin so sallow. The priest chanted in tongues as the woman in her throes of physical and mental illness, whipped her body.

Master David Alexander stood by the bedside, his eyes dry. Some of his sons sobbed. Others were grim-faced but silent.

"Lord, release these demons that bind her so. Send them back to the hell-mouth from which they came."

The priest's assistant, a dark-haired woman, her belly distended, leaned over and spilled holy water on Mistress Lena's skin.

"IT BURNS!" Lena screamed, her first coherent words since the spasms began. "IT BURNS!"

"Be blessed," the woman whispered. "The power of Christ compels you."

The priest turned to Master David, not bothering to lower his hood. "This is more than illness," he said. "I believe her sickness is being progressed by melancholy."

"And demon possession," Master David said.

"Her dejection only makes it easier for evil spirits to feed on her soul. Is there anything wrong? Are there family problems?"

Master David bit the inside of his cheek before saying, "Our youngest son, Ellis. We've been worried about him. He does not seem to want anything to do with the family business."

Mistress Lena began to arch her back, her long, jagged fingernails flexing toward the ceiling.

"Don't let him take my son!" she wailed. "DON'T LET HIM TAKE MY SON!"

The holy woman splashed more holy water on Lena who began to gurgle in pain.

"Is she speaking of Ellis now?" the priest asked.

"Probably of Thomas. I think he's coming down with the same illness, but not as badly. He still continues to work."

"What work does Thomas do?" the priest asked.

"He works alongside James Paul driving our slaves. Sometimes he works at the gallows."

(Simultaneously)

Thomas spat on the feet of the slave boy who stood on the gallows. The boy's leg had been torn up by dogs when he'd tried to run and he was of no use anymore. Other slaves began to gather around. Overseer James Paul stood nearby, all muscle, his swollen right arm folded over his left, his thick, bald bullet-head tilted forward, his overalls dangling.

"This boy tried to run," Thomas says. "Away from the family that fed him, housed him, clothed him all of his life."

The slave boy's mother stood in the doorway of her shack, her eyes watering. Rochelle lifted her sack over her shoulder, too far away to hear Thomas's words over the chatter, but close enough to see the sweat of the boy being hanged.

She flinched as the gallows dropped and the sound of the boy's neck snapping echoed over the crowd and into the woods. She imagined herself dangling from that noose and buried her face in her hands.

Nicholas Frasier had visited their shack again the day before. It was his fifth time and he'd already planned the way. It was too dangerous and too far to head straight North by land. They would go South, through some sugar plantations and swamps and into Louisiana, where a boatman named Virgil would sail them around the tip of Florida to Virginia, where it would be easier to escape by land. It was not just Rochelle and Uncle Coach they were supposed to take, but many slaves from neighboring plantations as well. Nick had explained this with such gloriousness, Rochelle thought it too good to be true. There were safe-houses along the way with places to hide, and people willing to help.

Thomas said, "Let this be a lesson to all of you."

James Paul straightened up from his perch and began beating around the closest slaves.

"G'wan," he said. "Get t'werk, lazy niggers."

Rochelle began to move with the stream of black people toward the field when James Paul grabbed her shoulder. "Not you," he said. "Master David wanna see you."

_He knows,_ Rochelle thought. Thomas smirked, stepping down from the platform, unfazed by the corpse swinging by his head.

"I'll escort you," he said. "I don't want you getting lost on the way there."

Rochelle analyzed Thomas. He'd lost weight. The tallest of his brothers, he already seemed slender enough. His cheeks had sunken, yet he hadn't lost his smooth debonair, his handsomeness. She guessed he was coming down with what his mama, Mistress Lena, had.

…

(Minutes Later)

Rochelle polished plates with the twins Mary-Ann and Lionel, Master's only white servants. The both of them were fatter than blood-drunk ticks and only knew kitchen work, and did it well. Mary-Ann cooked food so delicious it could make a grown man cry. Master David and Nicholas Frasier sat at the table discussing business, economics, things she didn't understand and didn't bother to, with Thomas. Ellis, the youngest Alexander son, (and the only one Rochelle liked) was supposed to be listening, but he seemed half in a dream. Master David often glanced over at her. Ellis stared at Nick Frasier. She wondered if what Laveau had told her, about Nick being a queer, was true.

"You gonna keep on dreamin', or you gonna help me with these hoppin' johns?" Mary-Ann said. She had much more sass than Lionel, a slow, shy man whose weight only slowed him down more. Lionel cut up pork meat for breakfast.

"Why'm I not in the fields today?" Rochelle whispered to Mary-Ann. The fat middle-aged woman glanced over at Master David who thumbed gold coins onto the table.

"Me thinkin' he's moving you into the Big House," she said.

Rochelle furrowed her brow. "Why?"

Mary-Ann shrugged. "He's _your_ man."

"He's not my man. He's Missus Lena's man. White man ain't supposed to have feelings for no slave. N' besides, I can't cook or clean. I'm only good at pickin' crop."

"You poor, naïve chille," Mary-Ann said. "He sure feelin' for you. You sh' see the way he waits at night. For you."

"Missus is sick. He need someone in bed, is all."

"Why'd he move you close if he just wanted someone t' mess aroun' wit? He ain't Thomas. You ain't just a plaything to him, Rochelle."

She tried to bite back the tears pricking her eyes. "When Missus dies, he gonna marry a new woman. What then? He still gonna have me on the side?"

"Some men like him shell up their black women for years and years. I heard it. One woman had her man build a house out in the woods for her and them mullata chillin' and he'd come and visit and pay for everything dey need. You's gonna love him one day, Rochelle."

Mary-Ann sliced potatoes. Rochelle glanced over her shoulder at Master David again. Their eyes met. He smiled. She shuddered. _And if I have a pretty half-baby with skin like weak tea, then what? When she gets older, he'll bed her too?_

Nicholas Frasier did an excellent job of not paying Rochelle any attention. He didn't want to draw notice to their relationship. Ellis didn't do a good job, however, of concealing whatever emotion he felt while staring at the dark-haired Yankee man and Thomas, his riding boots on the table, sucked his teeth in disgust. He lit up a pipe and began to smoke.

Mary-Ann brought Thomas a plate of scrambled eggs and sliced pork meat. The young man glanced at it, lifted the meat like someone's soiled underwear between his fingers.

"Is this pork?" he asked.

"Yes," Mary-Ann said.

Thomas lifted the meat to his mouth, breathing on it, before placing it back down. "You take a bite of it first," he said.

The woman's eyes burned with hatred but she said nothing, taking a bite of the pork.

"How's it taste?" Thomas said.

"Good to me," Mary-Ann said.

Ellis looked at Thomas. "You're being cruel," he said.

"Hush, boy," Thomas said. "I'm just having some fun." Thomas took the rest of the plate and began to eat. Nicholas Frasier muttered a prayer and crossed himself as Ellis and Master David bowed their heads.

"Dear Lord," Master David said. "Please deliver my wife and son from the illness that binds them. And thank You for this meal provided by Your hands. Amen."

"More like _my_ hands," Mary-Ann whispered to Rochelle, who giggled.

"Lionel, will y'go with Rochelle and take dis plate upstairs to Missus?" Mary-Ann asked when the men had finished praying. The silent, bloated man nodded. Rochelle carried the plate on a silver tray from the kitchen as Lionel shuffled behind her up the stairs.

The door swung open and Mistress Lena lay prostrate on her bed, the hooded priest still by her bedside with Doctor Leary, a small, hunched man who giggled nervously when he spoke.

Doctor Leary checked Mistress Lena's temperature with a thermometer. She was calm now, and only sobbed and sang hymns softly. But when Rochelle grew close with the tray of food the woman began to growl, making guttural sounds, raising her head. Her stark-white hair plastered over her eyes. "STAY AWAY!" she shrieked. Rochelle staggered backward, dropping the tray. The glass of orange juice spilled on the floor. Doctor Leary stood up.

"You klutz! Get out!"

She backed from the room. Lionel however, stayed, gathering the food that hadn't touched the floor. He placed it on the nightstand as Mistress Lena burst into tears again. His hand brushed hers.

(That Next Month)

Master got sick. Rochelle noticed, but instead of his nails growing long like Mistress Lena's or his tongue thickening and warts appearing on his face like Thomas, his muscle seemed to swell. She noticed when he bruised her arms one night, thrusting so hard she barely had time to breathe in-between. He was usually gentle, but now, he hurt her. He was aggressive. He didn't even ask if she was alright anymore.

She'd been moved from her shack to a room downstairs by the foyer. Sometimes, when she slept after a long day of work cooking and cleaning, he'd burst into her cupboard sized room and she'd wake up to the pain of him driving in and out.

(One Night)

Ellis tangled his fingers into Nick's dark hair as the older man banged him against the wall of the old bathroom. His mouth open, his eyes half-lidded in pleasure, he groaned as Nicholas nuzzled his neck and began to suck, bruising his skin.

Shock jolted down his spine when the door opened and then closed. Nick stopped pumping, turned his head to see who had entered. They'd locked the door.

It was Rochelle, and she did not react to what they'd been doing. There were tears on her cheeks and she clutched onto the curtain, staring Nick in the eyes.

"I want to go," she said, so softly it almost inaudible.

Ellis and Nick looked at each other. Nick pulled out of him, and the boy dragged himself against the wall, wrapping his nakedness in a towel. Nick stared at Rochelle, her ripped-up nightgown, her bruised body.

"What are you doing in here?" he said.

"I want to go," she said, louder. "Now."

"Go where?" Ellis asked.

"We can't go now, girl. We've planned everything with Virgil. He won't be there…"

He trailed off when he saw the blood running down her legs. His eyes widened.

"Alright," he said. "We'll go. Now. Ellis, give her your trousers."

"What are you talking about?" Ellis said, standing. "Where are you going?" He picked his trousers from the floor as Nick cleaned up the girl's legs with a towel.

"What did he do to you?" Nick said, embracing Rochelle with such tenderness, jealousy burned in Ellis's chest.

"He got bigger," she said. "…like a horse."

"Put these on," Nick said, giving her Ellis's trousers. She slid them on and Nick helped her tuck the nightgown under the waistband. Nick took off his jacket and dwarfed her in it.

"We're going to go see that doctor on the way," Nick said. "You need medicine."

Ellis inhaled as he finally realized what was happening. He scrambled to his feet.

"I'm coming with you," he said.

"Don't be dense," Nicholas Frasier said.

"I don't want to stay here. I want to go with you, Nick."

Rochelle looked at the boy, her mouth quivering. She fainted from the pain into Nick's arms.

"Damn it," Nick swore. "Is there a way out of this house where we won't wake anyone up?"

"My father's office," Ellis said. "There's a dumbwaiter. It's large enough for one of us at a time. It leads down to the kitchen."

"You stay here," Nick said.

"You need my help."

"Smuggling slaves to freedom isn't a business you want to get caught up in, Ellis. Do you know how the stakes will rise if you come with us? Your father isn't just losing two slaves, he's losing his son as well. Efforts to catch us will be doubled. Tripled, even."

"I know how to get out of this house with no one seeing us. Just let me help you that far," Ellis said.

Nicholas Frasier sighed and nodded. "Fine. I'll go down the dumbwaiter first and you send Rochelle down to me."

They stole through the hallway against the snores of the Alexander sons, Mistress Lena's sobbing, Thomas's raucous coughs. Ellis unlocked his Father's office. He moved to the dumbwaiter and slid it open. It was smaller than he'd assumed, but Nick managed to crouch inside. Ellis worked the pulleys and Nick disappeared into the shaft. The rope went taut. Moments later, Nick called up the shaft, "Alright, now send Rochelle."

Ellis lifted the unconscious girl into the box. He winced as her blood stained his hand. He rolled the pulleys until he heard the dumbwaiter reach the bottom again. He waited for Nick to say, "Alright, your turn."

But the man didn't say anything. He listened as Rochelle's weight was lifted from the box. The kitchen door opened, then closed. Nick was leaving him.

(That Same Night)

Uncle Coach bled. James Paul, the overseer, slammed him into the ground over and over, his swollen left arm taut with muscle. James Paul had found out Coach was faking his leg injury when he saw the man run across the field the night before.

"Y' stupid. Nigger. Son of a bitch," James Paul growled. The shack door swung open and Master David's guest, Nicholas, stood there, holding the slave-girl, Rochelle, over his shoulder. Nick backed away. James Paul left the bloodied Coach and pulled a knife from his pocket.

"What you doin' wit 'er?" James said. Nick had no weapon on him. He hadn't expected this. He lashed out with his foot and kicked the overseer in the jaw. The knife clattered from his hand. Nick set Rochelle down. "You. Calm down and let us go," he said.

James Paul spat out blood. "I ain't no fool," he said. "You gonna die."

Nick clenched his fists to prepare for a fight, but stiffened when a noose was roped around his neck and pulled taught.

"You Yankee motherfucker," Thomas's voice whispered into his ear. "First my brother, now my Daddy's slaves?"

Nick looked back, strangling. Thomas's once-handsome face had been broken by fat warts as his illness progressed. His tongue hung like a rotting organ and Nicholas groaned through his constricted throat as the young man licked his cheek.

"Lookit him," James Paul said, wiping his mouth. He picked up his knife, pointed it at Nick. "Turnin' blue."

Neither of them noticed Rochelle stir, her eyes opening. She reached out and seized Thomas's leg, sunk her teeth so far into it she marked the bone. Thomas screamed in agony, releasing Nick, who collapsed, grasping for air. At that moment, Uncle Coach leaped onto James Paul's back and began to punch him. James Paul, still much stronger, slammed his over-large fist into Coach's stomach. The slave man crumpled. James Paul lifted the knife, about to end coach when six bullets thudded into his right arm, ripping it to shreds. It went limp, the knife falling again. James Paul stared at his arm, turning to see who had fired.

Ellis stood with his father's rifle in the doorway, one foot on Thomas's gasping throat.

"Get up," Ellis said. "Let's go. Now."

The lights in the Big House began to turn on. Dogs barked. Ellis pulled Rochelle to her feet. She spat out a chunk of leg into Thomas's reddening face.

"If only you were your daddy," she said to the ill boy, her eyes brimming with tears. "I'd've bit off more than your goddamn leg."

Nick, recuperated, helped Coach stand. James Paul passed out from blood loss.

"There's a carriage in the stables, horses already attached. I rounded them up when you left me," Ellis said.

Nick nodded, taking the rifle from the boy. "We've got to move," he said. "If you're in pain, it means you're all still alive. If we don't go now, we'll all be dead soon."

(Hours Later)

"What's wrong with her?"

"Trauma. Tearing in her womb, from what I can tell," the small, nervous doctor said. He leaned the candle away from Rochelle's open legs.

"I can give you alcohol for her to drink. It will dull her pain." His thin lips pulled back over his teeth and he let out an anxious laugh. Uncle Coach had the rifle pointed at his head.

They'd press-ganged him for his services. Ellis stood in the corner gathering medicine and herbs into the pockets of his brother's stolen coat.

"Pack light," Nick said. "We're running. Not taking a Sunday stroll."

The boy nodded. The doctor's shack was a few miles away from the plantation. At first, they'd spurred the horses on at top speed. When they came to a river, they left one horse and the carriage behind, using the other one to ford the river with Rochelle on its back, since she was in the worst shape. The men waded and swam.

They found the doctor's office by the bright candlelight in the window.

"You realize this is more than just runaway slaves," the doctor said. "You're committing a crime and a sin by doing this to me. God have mercy on your soul."

He spoke of the gold coins in a sack Nick carried on his back.

Nicholas slammed his fist into the doctor's jaw. Blood spurted from the hunched man's nose. "Human enslavement is a crime and a sin," Nick said. "What that bastard did to this girl is a crime and a sin." His anger quaked him.

"You tell them which way we went," Ellis said. "And your gold and all your medicine ends up at the bottom of that river."

Nick exhaled. He wished the boy hadn't come with them. It complicated things. He was afraid that Ellis had tagged along not because he hated his bigoted family, but because Ellis had feelings for him.

Coach prodded the Doctor with the barrel of his gun."Go to y'room n' pretend you's asleep."

The Doctor held up his hands as he was corralled into the bedroom. Coach closed the door, locked it from the outside.

Nick lifted Rochelle into his arms from the table. "Come on, sweet girl," he said. "We got a long way to go."

The girl phased in and out of consciousness. He prayed she got better soon. The four of them went outside into the night. Nicholas put Rochelle on the back of the horse, placing the reins in her hands.

"If we get caught," he said. "You ride this horse straight southwest till you come to the Mississippi river. If you get lost, look for houses with candles in the windows at night. Virgil will be waiting on a boat there for you."

"I'm not leaving you," she said. "Or Uncle Coach."

"That horse goes faster with only one person on it, girl," Nicholas said.

Rochelle looked at the three men and could only imagine them hanging from a noose, Thomas's sadistic smile, Massah's dark eyes.

Suddenly, they heard dogs barking, the howl of a hound. Their pursuers had found the abandoned carriage. Master David's voice boomed through the darkness. "They took one of the horses," he said. It was deeper, filled with rage.

Rochelle's eyes widened and she clutched the horse's flank.

"Be calm," Nick said. "We can lose them in the swamp."

(Time Unspecified)

They didn't know, then, that within the next few weeks, the infection caught by the Alexander family would spread like wildfire. It was when they crossed through an isolated rice field, saw the slaves standing-knee deep in water and vomiting blood.

"What's wrong with them?" Rochelle asked. She'd recovered enough from her wounds that she could walk, yet she held the horse's mane to keep her steady. They'd renamed the horse Moses.

Nick approached one of the infected slaves, pressing the unused rifle against his belly. The dark-skinned man turned, his eyes glowing, his mouth stained with gore. He roared and lashed out at Nick. Nick yelled, pulling the trigger, blasting the man's brains out. Rochelle and Ellis both nearly vomited.

Rochelle said, stiffened, "They's all sick."

"I heard o' this," Coach said. "From d' Gullah women down n' Charleston. It's voodoo. Come from the Carr'bean. They calls these zombies."

"I think they got the illness my Mama and brother and pop got," Ellis said, pale.

Alerted by the gunshot, more zombies began to wander forward, breaking into a run when they heard the humans. Without hesitating, Nick emptied bullets into their skulls.

"Massah's gonna hear us!" Rochelle said.

"We haven't heard them chasing us in days," Nicholas said. "I think we're safe. Except from these…whatever the hell they are."

"Zombies," Coach said.

Nick noticed Ellis staring off into the woods and furrowed his brow. "What is it?"

"Is that the priest?" Ellis said, pointing. They all looked. The hooded priest from Mistress Lena's bedside crossed the rice-field toward them, too slowly to be natural. A low growl seemed to be emanating from his throat.

"What?"

"Be blessed," the priest screeched, his rosary swinging as he threw himself through the air and landed on Ellis, uncut nails gouging into the boy's skin. "I'll tear the demons out of you!"

His eyes glowed as well and Ellis screamed in agony. Nick pointed the rifle, but it clicked at the sound of an empty chamber. Rochelle slapped the horse. The animal bucked and kicked the priest off of Ellis. The pastor rolled to the ground, still.

"Something's wrong," Nick said. "I've never seen illness catch this quick. It's a plague."

Nobody was listening to him, however. There was a sound of trees falling, the ground shaking, water's surface broken by ripples. It was Rochelle who turned first, stricken still, her eyes wild. A huge stone catapulted from the woods, splashed into the water only feet away from them. The men ran. Rochelle didn't move.

"Get on that horse!" Nick roared.

The trees collapsed and a monster, muscles the size of trunks, tongue hanging lose, came bellowing from the woods. Most would have turned on their heels and darted immediately. But Rochelle recognized the blonde hair, the green eyes, the upper half of the destroyed face. Nick waved his arms like he was taunting a bull, shouting insults, trying to get the creature to turn toward him. But he came straight at Rochelle as if Massah had to finish what he started, as if Massah couldn't live without her, would split her open trying, even in the heat of infection, to make love to her like he'd always done.


End file.
